


Monarch

by spellwing777



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: FTM Wanda to Walter, Gender Dysphoria, Genderbending, Other, Rule 63 Dan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-02-20 04:23:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13138983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spellwing777/pseuds/spellwing777
Summary: Again, a fill for the Kinkmeme, this time 'One person gets no attention from the person they love, but as soon as they begin undergoing hormone replacement therapy and feel more comfortable with themselves, they get more attention from that person.' https://watchmen-km.dreamwidth.org/287.html?thread=85791#cmt85791





	1. Chapter 1

She would _like_ to blame her mother for it.

It seemed logical, almost. Dressing up a girl child in boy clothes and referring to her as a 'him' was bound to have consequences. She recognized it on a rational level as an attempt to keep the sticky, grasping hands of her clients away, to protect her, keep her safe. However, she has a hard time trusting the goodwill of a woman that beat her regularly and engaged in a profession that would necessitate dressing her daughter like that. The road to hell was paved with good intentions; the road to this decision was paved with hair clippings.

Still, even as she was sure that she would be judged for it, as every lock that fell she couldn't help but feel that the weight that was lifting off her wasn't just the hair.

\---

It had probably started with the clothes, but the exact point where 'she' felt more like a 'he' was far enough into the past that it was fuzzy and indistinct. Pants instead of skirts were one thing, the feeling of 'wrongness' when she was forced to wear skirts coming into foster care was another, and it wasn't just the clothes. It was the way she was addressed, treated, _looked at_ that really rankled. It was difficult to explain or pin down, and when she tried to explain to one of the therapists at the orphanage he dismissed her feelings as a tomboy phase. He reassured her that she would grow out of it come puberty. She tried, she did, to believe it. Still, there was no better feeling than shedding her skirt for pants when she snuck out.

Except puberty made it so much _worse_. With her square face and slim figure, she'd been able to pass so long as she tucked up her long hair into a ball cap. Now there were small swells on her chest that were getting harder and harder to hide. Lower though, well...Wanda had never paid what laid between her legs much mind, mostly she tried to ignore it and pretend it didn't exist. The few boys she'd hung out with when disguised as one had never been very shy, so she knew what a boy's genitals should look like, and every time she looked at the empty space between her legs it...bothered her. On a deep, personal level that she couldn't explain. And as she grew, so did they, and she stopped sneaking out to see them, afraid they might question why she was looking differently.

That paled in comparison to the blood though, and the...other things that came with it.

The dreams terrified her, leaving her awake and shuddering in her bed, the warm feeling of arousal fighting with the feeling of disgust and nausea. And then there was the looks of men and young boys, the way they looked at her differently. There had been the occasional look from her mother's clients that crawled over her-despite the disguise-looks that felt like they left a greasy stain on her skin when she was little. Out of her mother's apartment, the stares stopped. Now, though, they started up again, and she felt exposed in her blouse and skirts. She longed for the armor of pants and 'him' and a flat chest. But she didn't have the freedom to do that. She would lose her job, and once she'd left the orphanage, that was all she would have to keep her going.

It was, surprisingly, her job that assisted her with at least one of those problems.

The orphanage had set her up with a job at the local garment facility, to teach her life skills. She detested working on the lacy, ridiculous undergarments, but she wasn't one to complain. There, though, she learned the skills necessary to make her clothes and even her own bra. With a few modifications, she could easily make clothes that would hide her form instead of accentuating it and a bra that pressed her breasts down without suffocating her. But there was only so much she could do, how far she could go before her courage failed her. The world at large wouldn't be very kind if she tried to transition. Her conscience wasn't much kinder, either, and she had an intense internal struggle between her morality and desires. She couldn't help but feel judged, like a freak, a degenerate, no more than she could help feeling like she was a stranger in her own body. She'd _tried_ to feel comfortable in her own skin. In the orphanage, there was no shortage of other girls that would lend their makeup at the drop of a hat for 'makeovers'. It was kindly meant, and enjoyable in a way, although how she turned out varied greatly depending on their skill. Still, no amount of foundation made the stranger in the mirror look any less familiar. One time, she'd stumbled upon a dress. A custom order rejected by the customer. It was called 'ugly' but to her, it was beautiful. Very, very, beautiful. She had some irrational feeling, stupid and childish, that it was the answer to her troubles. Like Cinderella's shoes, it would solve her troubles and transform her into the woman she was meant to be. She tried it on.

It was...beautiful. Still. But the body under it wasn't. She tore it off and stuffed it into a box under her bed, where it remained. The disappointment stung, but the material was just too beautiful to throw out.

And then Kitty died, and it really struck home.

(She couldn't help but think that wouldn't have happened to her if she wasn't a woman-

_she couldn't help but think if I'm not a woman, it won't happen to me-_ )

She left the job, and Wanda, behind.


	2. Chapter 2

'Walter' was the name he went by now. It wasn't very imaginative, and it fit him terribly, but he wanted something similar enough to his former name that it was easy to remember and it and responding to it would be automatic. It was easy-almost too easy-to sign resumes with the name, and he was able to land a new job at the shipyards.

Working at the shipyards was difficult and physically taxing. Still, it was better than the humiliating work in his previous job. Paid better too, and he couldn't help but notice that he was paid better in general than his female counterparts, and it made him uncomfortable. Still, he was put to work loading the lighter items, like plastic cups and paper towels because he was scrawny compared to the middle-aged men around him, and since he was moderately good with numbers, he was also charged with keeping track of inventory. He'd had concerns, but it seemed that lying and saying he was two years younger than he actually was had worked. They just assumed his slim figure and fuzz-less cheeks were the results of unfinished puberty and genetics, and he just naturally looked younger than he was. He built a lot of muscle when he was put to work stocking trucks. The muscle would come in handy if he was to proceed with his idea.

He still had one last concern though, and that was this: he had no idea how to throw a punch. Boys at the orphanage had been offered free boxing lessons through the local school, but girls were never taught how to fight, as it was not thought as being a very 'womanly' activity (and he cynically thought 'if kitty had been taught how to fight, maybe she wouldn't have been killed') Only the ignorant and stupidly naïve didn't think that the world around them was indiscriminately cruel or that there would always be a white knight to sweep in and save the damsel in distress. Regardless of what he thought of this though, he still needed to figure something out.

Again, it was his job that was able to solve this problem, in the form of a coworker. Jack was a former marine, and had, at one time, been a decent boxer. He'd even won a few medals in his time, although mostly he'd bummed the less-than-legal circuit for extra cash. He was a course man that laughed at him as he swung wildly, cracking jokes about him being a welterweight. It was _funny_ , to him, to teach a skinny kid that hadn't even cracked his voice yet how to fight, but the tips were actually useful and kindly meant. It took him more than a year to get good enough that he was judged a 'pro' by his tutor, this time seriously, with no mockery meant.

He decided that his first night would be Halloween. If he messed up horribly, everyone would think of him as just another costumer on a night of costumes, not a failed vigilante.

And his first night was...difficult. He'd expected pushback, but in his worst-case scenarios he'd imagined something more along the lines of getting beat, stabbed, or shot by some hoodlum. Instead, he was met with _laughter_. It wasn't a knife to the gut. It was worse.

He'd been threatening some girl for her money, and she'd long since taken the opportunity to run off while her attacker was preoccupied. The man didn't even care that his target had escaped, too preoccupied with laughing himself sick.

"Oh my fuckin' god." He snorted. "You kiddin'? I thought all those costumed fags retired. So, you the new kid on the block, looking to fill they shoes?"

His fists clenched.

"Fucking _freak_ ," He smirked, "What are you gonna-"

He reeled back as an expertly-thrown trash can lid hit him right in his smart mouth. And then he was hollering and carrying on as he became the punching bag for an angry transman with _far_ too many issues. It wasn't pretty.

By the time Walter had run of steam (and issues) the man was groaning and barely conscious. Standing over him, he had a flash of deja vu. It wasn't too dissimilar to when, years and years ago, he'd blinded one child and jumped another. It was the same, burning rage that had landed him in the orphanage. The same, sick feeling of satisfaction.

He left the man groaning in the gutter, unmarked. It would only be later that he figured out what his 'signature' was. His first catches wouldn't be signed or even tied up, just beat to a bloody pulp. Word got around, of a new vigilante, and it caught on quickly. It had been years since the last batch, so he was new and unusual enough to be interesting. It took a while for them to get the name right, though. For months he was known as 'ink-blot' before he left 'Rorschach' next to some groaning thugs, and it took another month for every newspaper to address him as such. Even longer for it to be commonly used on the streets instead of being called every slur in the book. Eventually, they started calling him by his _name_ and that's when things started to shift. It's when they started to take him seriously, and they started to actively try to take him out. Things became more difficult.

A year and a half had passed since he'd started, and it was...satisfactory. But there was still something not quite...

Looking at himself in the cracked mirror in his scummy apartment, he still couldn't stand to take off his shirt and look at his own naked chest. Nature had been sparing when it came to his hips, and he'd always had a very...mannish face (to put it politely) but his chest...

The binder had done all it could, and he'd been wearing for quite some time now. His breasts weren't quite at large as his mother's genes would have dictated, but they were still large enough to give him trouble breathing. It had been easier to start. They hadn't been as big. But now...

Last night, he'd faced up against a gaggle of thugs working for the newest up-and-coming head of organized prostitution. It had been bloody, sweaty, and his most difficult fight so far. It wasn't like all of his previous ones, going up against lone muggers, or fighting a few uncoordinated gang members. These were trained professionals, and they outnumbered him. He'd fought tooth and nail and might have won, if not _for the damned binder_. He couldn't suck in as much air as he needed, and while it was well designed, his breasts had finally started to constrict his breathing. He'd been forced to retreat down the sewers, where the other men were simply too big to follow. That hadn't been fun. His costume was still sitting in the plastic bag that he'd stuffed it into once he'd come home. It would most likely require multiple washings to get all the smell out; he'd required multiple washings himself until he felt completely clean.

He needed to rebuild the bra, and this model would have to prioritize breathing over a perfectly flat chest. He'd have to probably re-seam his clothes too, to better conceal the inevitable cleavage. He made a frustrated noise, glaring at the swells easily visible under his shirt. He'd slid the binder off, and even with wearing the binder as often as he could stand it, they persisted, and when he didn't wear it, they were obscenely large. He'd thought they'd eventually shrink away if he used enough constant pressure, but no such luck. His mother had always had very firm, large breasts, and she'd passed that on down her line. He didn't have an ounce of fat on him and had tried starving himself a few times to try to rid himself of them. Other than dizzy spells and concerned looks from coworkers, it had accomplished nothing. He'd tried researching this problem in the library and had discovered that breasts weren't made up of just fat, it was tissue and densely packed glands that gave them firmness and structure. Looking at the x-ray picture in the biology book, the structure looked like tree roots, intractable, firmly clinging onto his flesh and bones.

_(He'd once stood in front of the mirror bare-chested, box-cutter in hand, and wondered-)_

He hadn't done it. Stupid to die of blood loss and wind up on the front page, exposed for the world to see. But...it had been tempting. So tempting. The sharp blade had winked lasciviously at him in the light, like a come on, and it had taken more self-control than he'd ever like to admit to put it away. Rationality had won over self-loathing that night, but he would have to do _something_.

He sighed and gave up on introspection for now. His uniform wasn't going to wash itself.


	3. Chapter 3

Between work and ‘work’, he has very little time or energy for anything else, and has to murmur evasionary words when his older coworkers pry and ask if he’s got a girlfriend, if he’s _ever_ had a girlfriend, is he even into girls-

(the last one makes him sweat and panic, not sure if the joking and good-natured ribbing might be thinly veiled suspicion, of him being gay or-

He’s not sure which is worse.)

It also makes him anxious because, well, he really _isn’t_ sure if he likes girls, or guys for that matter. He honestly wasn’t sure what sex he found appealing, the only shameful feelings of arousal he’d ever experienced was at night, in formless dreams that disturbed him and made him feel disgusted, and, paradoxically, aroused. Also, the only times he’d even tried to masturbate had ended in failure. He just couldn’t picture anything, no situation or person that was erotic enough to send him over the edge, and he had no context to draw from that wasn’t his mother entertaining Johns. He has not experienced attraction or anything similar for anyone, although that might have something to do with the fact that the only people he’d socialized with are the older males at the shipyards during the day. At night, he was Rorschach, and he was sure terrorizing informants didn’t count as socializing. There was a distinct lack of people he could possibly be attracted to around, really.

He’s not even sure that if there was he even _could_ feel attracted, or if it’s a good or bad thing if he did find himself interested in someone. It would be good, in some ways, if he did find a girl. Less suspicious, for one. And…he couldn’t deny that he did feel lonely, at times. But when it came to his body, it was a pit trap of quandaries. Depending on how it was viewed, a relationship with a woman was technically homosexual (because he was born female) and he couldn’t imagine that any female would find what was under the clothes anything other than detestable, no matter how earnestly he felt that he was male. And, if he found himself interested in a male, it was just the same, only inverted.

Despite those dangers, though, his own insecurities and fear of scrutiny did result in one, failed attempt at a relationship. It wasn’t even his idea-he was too fearful to attempt to approach anyone-it was the idea of his mentor’s daughter. Jack’s daughter wasn’t a bad girl, but she was just liberal enough to make the first move rather than the other way around. He’d seen her frequently, lingering around the edges of the yard for her father to get off work so he could drive her to cheerleading practice. They’d had a brief conversation because she was bored and he was the only person her age at the yards. He’d carried on the conversation politely enough, focusing mostly on his checklist and loading heavy boxes. He’d mostly considered her as a background feature, until he’d caught her staring at him with a peculiar interest, her gaze focused on his arms. He didn’t recognize the look in her eyes, only that it made him uncomfortable, and reminded him, somewhat, of other looks, long ago. He felt his face heat and tried to avoid her then.

When she’d asked for a date, he hadn’t refused. She was his mentor’s daughter after all, and he didn’t want to risk offending the man, nor did he want to arouse suspicion. So he took her on walks and to Coney island and did his best to be perfectly polite and accommodating, and hope that she eventually lost interest. The dates made him anxious and terrified that the truth of him might suddenly be exposed, and his date, unfortunately, found that ‘charming’. His reluctance was misinterpreted as shyness, and she apparently found it rather novel. She was used to dating jocks off the football team, which were forward and aggressive.

“You’re such a gentleman, Walt.” She cooed, hanging off his arm. “You really know how to treat a lady.”

He…wasn’t sure what to think of that comment. Some part of his mind was tempted to say ‘well, having been one previously-‘ and he had to stop himself thinking it, in case he blurted it out.

He actually was perfectly knowledgeable about what to do on dates because the girls around him in the home loved to gossip about their dates and complain and pass around magazines. The magazines were especially definite, with detailed instructions even, on the perfect ‘date night’, so he had a handy little list of what he should and shouldn’t do at least. The thing is, it seemed to be working a little bit _too_ well.

The first thing his mind registered when she kissed him was the softness of her lips and the slight greasiness of her chapstick. He froze in his seat on the ferries wheel, held in suspension like their small, metal enclosure at the top of the wheel. He wasn’t sure what to do, and didn’t really respond. Eventually she pulled away, looking quizzically at him.

“You okay?” She sounded concerned.

“I…” He swallowed. “Sorry.”

“Is this your first kiss?”

He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nodded. Might as well be truthful. She just smiled at him, not judging, and turned his face back towards hers to teach him how. It felt…nice. Nothing like the open-mouthed slobbering of his mother and her ‘guests’, the clumsy grabbing at flesh. The only contact other than her lips was her arms crossed behind his neck, light and warm, and where his arms rested at the small of her back. This close he could smell the soap she used and the dab of lavender behind each ear. He’d been afraid that he’d find this suffocating, that he’d have flashbacks to his horrifying dreams of the beast with two backs. But it was difficult to connect this with the imagery of a dank, enclosed space. It was too bright with the fading rays of sunlight and her smell.

It was pleasant, but not erotic. He still wasn’t sure if he even found her sexually appealing, not until she came closer and her breasts pressed against his chest. He flushed at the contact, felt a familiar warmth low in his groin, and inhaled quickly through his nose. He withdrew as graciously as he could, thoughts racing in his head. She smiled contentedly and leaned on him, lacing their fingers together.


End file.
